Why?
by I am the girl in the corner
Summary: Why did he trash his apartment? Why did he have to write that book? Why did he not see it? All of us have have those days that seem to come from our worst nightmares, but what has happened to send McGee over the edge?
1. Chapter 1

Warning: Mention of rape.  
Spoiler: 4x20 - Cover Story  
Disclaimer: I do not own NCIS

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Why do I write? Why do I bother? What on heaven and earth inspired me to write about my colleagues and, if that wasn't dumb enough, to go and try and get it published? I don't know how many times I have asked myself those questions. Honestly, I know exactly why.

The case had hit us hard and I needed an out. Tony had gone home to drink himself into oblivion while listening to soft music. I could not believe it when I saw the music at his apartment. He still doesn't know that I know.

Ziva would most likely, settle down with a few glasses of wine and clean her gun. Or maybe not, she keeps everything pretty close to the chest so I don't really know what she does when a case is hitting her hard.

Gibbs would be drinking bourbon till he either couldn't see the bottle or collapsed on the floor. Oh, and work on the damned boat. He still will not tell us how he gets them out of the basement. I think maybe he might... Nope I've got nothing.

Abby goes clubbing, Ducky dotes on his mother even more. I would have zero idea of what Jimmy might do. Tony might and Gibbs would. Even Ziva probably would but I think a persons private life should remain private if they want it to be so.

It was 2 young children and their mother. Father is a lieutenant, Lieutenant Jason Bryers, stationed at Quantico. Base housing is supposed to be safe. A team came in and kidnapped all of them while he was on duty. We found them two weeks later. The mother had been raped and all three of them starved and beaten. A ransom was made for information that Bryers could not give and we found them 5 days later. The wife and son were DOA, their daughter died on the way to the hospital. We still have not found the people that did it. It was declared a cold case one week after finding them.

None of us had slept more than fifteen hours a week for the whole case. Director Sheppard took the team off rotation for a week to recuperate.

I remember arriving at home that night as vividly as it was yesterday. I just, collapsed. Two feet in my door, I fell against it and cried like a baby for the better part of an hour. When I got a hold of myself I had to write it out, had to make sense of what I was feeling but writing it down in my journal made it seem all to real, reminded me that it actually happened, that... So I wrote about someone else. I don't remember writing it just that I sat down, started typing and then it was four o' clock in the morning. By the time I sat back on my chair and it clicked that I was writing, I was actually feeling better. I started to use my writing as an emotional release, when I was feeling stressed, angry, upset or just down in general I would sit down and write.

Sarah was visiting, found my pages of pent up emotions and told me to go and see a publisher. That it was actually good. It would have been useless to argue with her, it was either go myself or she would take it for me. So the next day I went down to what is now my publisher and said I wrote something, would it be possible for it to be published. I still remember how patronising she was when she took and said she would have a look. The look on her face when she called me back in a week later and told me it was good, that she had a contract written up if I wanted it, oh, it was beyond priceless.

Two months later it was published, two week after that it was topping the charts. It seemed that I blinked and I had a best-seller on my hands.

Now I am standing in what remains of my trashed apartment, thinking it out. Why had I written the book? It almost seemed more trouble than it was worth. It drove people to kill each other. For once my writing had not been enough. For once, I just lost it. My apartment looks like a bomb hit it, but it was just me. When my anger was spent I slid down the wall as the guilt washed over me. Once again I was sitting in my apartment, back against the wall and crying my eyes out. I was glad DiNozzo hadn't thought to check up on me. I never would have heard the end of it. Looking around now, I sigh, bend down and pick a few books up off the floor. It was going to be a long night.

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_Hope you liked it. Let me know, pretty please with a cherry on top review. ;) Come on you know you want to._


	2. Chapter 2

When the time arrived for me to leave for work I was still awake, picking things up off my floor, throwing things broken beyond repair away. I did not even realise that time was passing, just mechanically stooped, picked something up and put it away. This went on for the better part of three hours and then it was time for work. I had not had any sleep and almost called in sick. That, however would not have been fair to the team, after all why should they suffer because of my stupid, stupid mistake?

Man, I hate that question. It was always at the end of all the questions at school and was the hardest part to answer. It was also the question people wanted the answer to the most. Why? It was almost as if the whole human race thrived on that one alluring question. Why? Why did he trash his apartment? Why did he not get any sleep? Why did Landon decide to kill people based on his book? Why, why, why, why, why? Yeah, I really hate that question. The answer always tantalisingly out of reach, just there in front of you, yet unable to be grasped.

I moved to the bathroom and had a short shower, I knew that if I set the water to a hot temperature I would never get out, so it was almost all cold water. Stepping out after about five minutes, I walked to my bedroom and picked up some clothes off the floor from where they had been hurled the night before. Throwing them on my body, for once uncaring of whether every button was perfect, glad just that I was functioning, I walked to the kitchen. Taking a look around I decided to skip breakfast. If I could have found my way around the bomb site that was formerly known as my kitchen I doubt I would have eaten anything anyway. Instead I settled for grabbing my keys, miraculously still hanging by the door after my late night rampage.

It was a wonder I had not had complaints from my next door neighbour. He had enough of a problem with my shredding let alone my trashing my entire apartment at one-thirty in the morning. Well, there would be no more shredding, not if I had anything to do with it. Shredding was merely a by-product of my writing and look what had become of that. No, there would not be any more shredding.

Opening my front door, I stepped out and looked back at my apartment. Most of my living room was done, I would just sleep on the couch tonight and then clean all day. Good thing it was Friday today. Sighing, I closed my door softly and turned to walk down the stairs. Good heavens, there were a lot of them.

Upon reaching NCIS, I took a deep breath and prepared the mask I would need to hide what I was feeling. If I was lucky no-one would pick up on the fact that I was wearing gloves. It was not that cold but I found I did not have the energy to explain the inevitable questions about the multiple cuts and bruises covering my hands. Closing my eyes briefly, I pasted on a half smile, best not to make it full one lest they guess I was fooling. Knowing them they would anyway but hey, couldn't hurt to try.

The doors dinged as they opened and I stepped out into the bullpen. Glancing at my watch I saw I was thirty minutes early. Absently, I wondered where Ziva was, she was normally here earlier than this. I walked over to my desk and sat down. I would use the extra time to catch up on some paperwork. Five minutes later that plan was foiled as Gibbs came in and sat near me. Calling my name his next words almost stopped my heart.

"McGee. You alright?"

How could I lie to Gibbs. I couldn't. That was all there was to it, I just couldn't. Even if I tried he would be able to tell. Glancing up at him I replied steadily,

"I will be."

There not a lie, it was the truth. Eventually, I would be fine, when eventually would be I did not know. I had a feeling that was one of those questions no-one knew the answer to.

"Tim." His voice held a certain amount of warning in it. He was obviously was not going to let me off the hook that easily. "Did you get any sleep last night?"

Numbly, I shook my head. This was not what was supposed to happen. Gibbs was not supposed to comment or care. He would see the guilt if he did that. Then he would only tell me that it was not my fault or that I needed to move on. Fat lot of help that would do. It was my fault. All of it. Those people, murdered because of me. They say that the pen is mightier than the sword. I doubt this was what they had in mind. Vaguely, I realised Gibbs was talking to me again. I blinked at him and he repeated himself.

"I said, what did you do last night then."

Again I just shook my head. They could not know. They would not understand the destruction to my home.

"Tim." Gibbs was speaking again. "You are going home, I'm driving."

My head jerked up to meet his in alarm.

"Uh, that's alright, Boss. I can manage."

He just grabbed my stuff and walked over to the elevator leaving me no choice but to follow. It was not a long ride, fifteen minutes at the most but my over-stretched nerves dragged it out till it seemed to take hours rather than minutes. Gibbs got out of his car and grabbed my stuff again. Getting out of the car, he motioned for me to do the same and then locked it. I started to protest again but every one died in my throat when I saw that glint in Gibbs's eye. He would not let this one go. When we reached my apartment, he motioned again for me to open the door. I took a breath and placed my key in the lock. Giving it a gentle twist I swung my door open, my eyes already trained on Gibbs looking for any sign of what he felt inside.

"Why, Tim?"

There it was again. I took a deep breath and turned to face him.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N - Thanks to all the wonderful people who reviewed, alerted and favourited. I tried to reply to each of you personally, if I did not my sincerest apologies. So, this is the last chapter. I remember a request for some McAbby back at chapter one and it fitted in well here. It might not be the type you wanted but, hey this fitted. **  
**Disclaimer - NCIS and its characters do not belong to me and this story is not intended as an infringement of copyright. It has been written solely for entertainment and no profit has been made from its creation.

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_"Tim, what happened here?"_

_I took a deep breath and turned to face him._

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"Uh, umm." I stalled, I couldn't seem to help it.

"Just spit it out, McGee."

"Me, Boss. I happened."

"What?" Gibbs's surprise was obvious. "Why?"

"Well, writing wasn't gonna work this time, Boss."

At Gibbs raised eyebrow I elaborated.

"A boat wouldn't fit, Boss and I don't hold my alcohol very well." Seeing the understanding dawn in my boss's eyes, I walked into my apartment. Turning back around to face Gibbs, I spoke again. "Thanks for dropping me off, Boss." Moving to shut the door, Gibbs surprised me by stepping in behind me.

"Why didn't you say something, McGee?"

"What would you have said, Boss? I threw a temper-tantrum. I picked up my things and hurled them at the wall. My father paddled me for that when I was younger."

"McGee, this is not the same. You needed an escape."

"I should have better control. I should be able to get over it, suppress it, something!"

"No, McGee. No."

"Boss?"

"You have some of the best self-control than most people I know. You can't just get over it and suppressing it only brings more trouble in the end. Believe me, McGee, I know. You had to let it out."

"I should have done something other than throw things around my room."

"Have you done it before?" I looked at the floor. "Hey, McGee! Has this happened before?"

"Yes, Boss."

"What happened?"

"I cleaned it up and swore to never loose it like that again. I found other things to do, to let out my emotions."

"What happened to set you off?"

"I was riding my bike. Our dog ran out in front of me. She was old, I knocked her over, the wheels of the bike ran over her neck and broke it. I killed our dog." The monotony of his voice as he recounted what happened nearly broke Gibbs's heart.

"Was that when you started writing?"

"No, that," his voice broke, "that was a few years ago."

"What did you do back then?"

"There was a river near the base. I would go off for hours and just stare at the water and imagine all of my emotions being swept away by the current. Eventually it would work and I would go back home."

I was tired now, there was nothing left. The night before, coupled with no sleep and Gibbs giving me the third degree, meant there was no longer any energy to feel, none to keep my tongue in check, my carefully guarded secrets pouring out rebelliously at each probing question. I half hoped Gibbs would go now, much more of this and there would not be a thing he didn't know. I needed to clean up too, before bugs moved in, before the fruit rotted in the corner, it's sickly sweet odour teasing it's tendrils through the rooms, invading every space till it was you could smell.

"When did you start writing?" Again the words seemed to pour out of their own volition, slipping their way past the carefully constructed walls, slinking through the tight defences.

"The Bryers case, Boss. Do you remember it? The wife and kids were kidnapped, beaten and starved. The wife was raped and they all died. We never solved it either. It's a cold case, now. No closure for the Lieutenant, a murdering rapist still on the loose. Free to do what he likes." The sorrow and guilt I felt leaked into every word, lacing them with poison, opening up my soul for perlustration.

Gibbs voice sounded hoarse, like the words were squeezing past a lump in his throat. "I remember. It was not your fault though. Neither was this. You hear me, McGee. Do you remember what I said to you earlier?" I shook my head numbly.

"Sorry, Boss. Wasn't focussing on much outside the case today."

"Well I will repeat myself then. Did you pick up a gun and shoot the man? Did you throw the javelin into his stomach?"

"No, Boss." My voice was soft, a barely discernible whisper in the silence permeating my small apartment.

"It is not your fault." Gibbs drew it out, enunciating each word till it seemed each was it's own sentence. "Or is there something else?"

"She could have been killed, Boss. I can't live with that. I almost got her killed!" My voice rose as I reached the end then stopped, my mind regaining momentary control over my tongue as I realised that I had just spoken the very thought I had been avoiding. The final straw that had tipped me over the edge, the one I refused to acknowledge lest the love inside of me burst out in all it's glory. The forbidden thought, the taboo emotion.

"D-mn it, McGee." Gibbs exhaled slowly. "You love her, and she doesn't love you." I could not even reply, merely nodding my head. "She doesn't blame you, McGee. No-one does. I don't." He stressed the I, emphasising it till that was all that mattered. That Gibbs didn't blame me.

Slowly the faintest gleam of silver appeared on the horizon. Tiredly I looked up and met his gentle gaze. I could see the silver reflected in his own eyes as he saw it in mine.

"Would you like to help me, Boss?"

"Any time, McGee."

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Reviews if you liked it. Review if you didn't. Criticism of a mild and non-flaming manner is welcomed. :)

- Kat


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